High School
Confidential
I absolutely hated high school. Loathed
every torturous second. It isn’t because I went through primary to ninth
grade with the same crew, or that we’d be going to school outside of our
community, or because the year before we were slated to go there was a race
riot, or that on my first day of tenth grade while opening my assigned locker a
pimp dropped his digits on a piece of scrap paper on my book bag and spent the
first few weeks sitting dangerously close to me in Biology class – it just
sucked the life out of me. Sure, the friends I’d come up with scattered like
flies once we were bused out of Eastern Passage to Cole Harbour High. Most of
them went on to do wonderful things and forged new friendships that have lasted
them a lifetime. I decidedly did not. I was a library rat. I hung out in the
hallways at lunch and talked to nerdy kids about music which I quite liked. I
faked sick a lot so I could stay home. I had teachers I didn’t enjoy. I wasn’t
engaged and I most certainly did not apply myself. I was one of the loners. It
didn’t help that in my first Honors English class, sitting with all the popular
Colby kids my teacher passed judgement on me quickly based on my appearance. He
singled me out and quipped, “Where are you from? Let me guess, Eastern
Passage.” I nodded, annoyed at his tone. “I thought so, you’re wearing
black.” Big whoop. I had a black sweatshirt on with my jeans, the gal
beside me was wearing a black sweater too. Brand name but still black. What
kind of teacher says that to a new student? Any student? What kind of
educator passes judgement based solely on appearance and geography? For good
reason, I disliked him immediately. He did the same to fellow EPer a few rows
over. He was wearing a leather jacket with an Iron Maiden patch on the back. A
smart kid, with a well work copy of ‘Cather In the Rye’ in his back
pocket. Our lovely teacher teased about his ‘hockey hair’ which
was hilarious to me considering the meat head sitting in the desk in front of
me an actual hockey player and dumb as a stump. But I digress. I was happy
still have a few of my good friends from ninth grade in my corner. One of which
was my wing woman the day I got in the biggest trouble of my teen years.
Music saved me during those years. Listening
to it, feeling it, digesting it, dissecting it, absorbing it, wearing it,
speaking it, wolfing down articles and liner notes, wallpapering my room with rock
posters, and waxing poetic with anyone who would engage in lyrical discourse
across all genres but in high school, I developed an affection on hair
metal. It started at TC’s house watching endless hours of ‘Pepsi Power
Hour’ on Much Music. She was obsessed with Faster Pussycat. And, it
goes without saying that the harder and faster the music, the higher the hair
got. BR was a massive Def Leppard fan who I was already familiar with because
of Rock Star Brother. We all overdosed on and rocked out to a shoe-box of well-worn
cassettes, GnR’s ‘Appetite For Destruction’, Crue’s ‘Shout at the Devil’,
Poison’s ‘Look What the Car Dragged In’, Warrant’s ‘Dirty Rotten
Filthy Stinkin Rich’, Whitesnake’s ‘Slip of the Tongue’, and of
course TC’s beloved Faster Pussycat’s ‘Wake Me When it’s Over’ – the box
was full of the hair metal standards. It was the one side of myself I
could share with my friends, the side of them I could enjoy. I also had, at the
very same time, a deep love for my new romantics and 80s pop. It was like
having a split personality. I’ve always been one of those people, I like what I
like, and I don’t care what anyone else thinks about it. Especially when it
comes to music.
I was particularly smitten at the time
with metal sty-lings of Slaughter. I ordered ‘Stick It to Ya’ from Columbia
House and practically chained myself to the mailbox waiting for it. I mean I had
to have it to learn every single lyric to every single song since Way
Cooler Big Sister scored us tickets to see them (and Winger) open for KISS
(sans make-up) in Halifax. I was impatiently counting down the days until the
show, crossing them off on the calendar in my student handbook. And then our
plans went down the shitter. Paul Stanley ran into a guardrail on stage in
Johnstown Pennsylvania and cracked his ribs. His injury resulted in KISS’s Atlantic
Canadian dates in Moncton, Halifax, and Sydney to be canceled. I’m pretty sure
our hearts were more injured than his ribs. We. Were. Devastated. And then, the
silver lining.
BR and I got wind that even though KISS
had canceled the show, the boys from Slaughter and Winger were making a pit
stop in Halifax for an in-store record sesh. It was a workday for Way Cooler
Big Sister, so she couldn’t go. My Mother told me, even though it’s a school
day, if Father Mine says it’s okay, I could go. Sigh. I dialed his work number with
Devil horns crossed, praying to the Metal Gods he’d be agreeable. He was not, “There
is NO way in HELL you’re skipping SCHOOL to go traipsing around with a bunch of
god damn rock stars. You’re well too. No. You’re going to school.” I
committed a sheer act of rebellion. I lied to my Mother and told her he said
yes. There was no way I was missing the chance to go hang in a record store
with Slaughter. I was a good egg, I never disobeyed direct orders. Odd
if you think about it since I grew up with adults my whole life, you’d think I’d
want to let my freak flag fly. But I respected my elders, for lack of a better
word, and minded my manners. I knew early on that doing the right thing got you
so much further in life than bucking the system. And really, it just wasn’t
in my nature. I was a square peg tightly squeezed into a round hole.
It was a perfect day. I woke up to the sun
shining. And, by some stroke of pure luck, as I was walking down my driveway to
leave, Way Cooler Big Sister was walking up, hands full of mail. Guess what had
arrived? At that exact moment? You guessed it, my cassette! I thought I’d
have to buy a second copy for them to sign but Canada Post came to the rescue. I
met BR and we bused across the bridge to Barrington Street. In those days,
A&A Records and Sam the Record Man were across the street from one another.
I confess, I spent far more time at Sam’s but on this day, A&A is where I needed
to be. It’s where Slaughter would be, signing stuff. I wasn’t as big a fan of Winger,
but they’d be at Sam’s, so we’d kill two birds with one stone. Us two teen
queens parked our Jack Daniels sweatshirts in line. And waited. And waited. Like
forever. Until there they were, behind a long table ready, willing, and armed
with Sharpies. The first member of the band we met was the sweetest. He signed
our stuff and smiled appreciatively. It went that way until we were standing before
the owner of the dynamic voice who sang our favorite song at the time, ‘Fly to
The Angels’. To our I guess visible dismay, he was less than gracious. He
wouldn’t look up at us or reply to our kind words and request for a photo with
him. Complete ignorance. Their drummer, who was sitting next to him, waiting
patiently for us to come his way caught the whole disappointment and invited us
around to take snap a picture. He made the day and I couldn’t wait to have it
developed! We left A&A a little less impressed. Who am I kidding!? A lot
less impressed. It stuck with me because when MySpace became a thing, I took
advantage of the platform to tell that singer, just what I thought of him while
minding my manners at the same time. BR and I popped over to Sam’s to see if we’d
have better luck with that crew. The band were all there. Kip Winger, from the
whispers I heard, was AWOL. We didn’t really know what to do so we fake-browsed
through the records and tried to further eavesdrop on all the nervous chatter
coming from the band. Kip eventually emerged. To me, he looked a creepy ass
decrepit vampire in desperate need of a serious blood bath. His seedy eyes were
heavily lined, his sneer insincere. Who were we kidding, he was whacked right out
of his heavy metal gourd. I took note of the long fingernail on his right hand
presumably used to play his bass but more likely doubled as a coke spoon. It
was ghastly filthy. I didn’t approach him because he wigged me out too much,
but we did enjoy the banter with his band. Super nice fellows. Much like those
who frequented our basement with Rock Star Brother throughout the years.
When I got home, I excitedly imparted every
detail in warp speed to Way Cooler Sister. And, then the phone rang. Father
Mine found out (someone totes ratted me out) I blew off school to go to
Halifax with my bud. He was livid. Never had I ever heard those kinds of
words come out of his mouth. Ever! I am sure the other five did at some point,
likely more than once, holy snappin’ assholes he was wild. He called me a
few choice names and did the whole ‘if you EVER do that again’ speech but his
voice trailed off.
It was like the opening montage of a Twisted
Sister video. Imagine, the one and only time I got into riotous trouble was
because of rock ‘n’ roll. I’d sold my soul, what can I say.
***
I saw something on the social media that
reminded me of this day and the enclosed photo. I had to add it as a creative
non-fiction piece for my project. Of course, years later, we laughed about it,
Dad and me. Doesn’t mean he still didn’t shake his head and tell me he thought
I had more sense. I joked with him and said, “At least I didn’t run away and
go on tour with them!” Back then, I just might have. Who knows …?
In propinquity,
Nic
